The Quiet Ones
by Schmoes
Summary: They often feel the most, until they don't at all.


The Mystery moved in silence. It conversed in stares and blood, the former with supposed allies and the latter with apparent foes. They had not named it, for it was The Mystery. They could not tell if it was more male or more female, and it never bothered to specify and really they were not sure it was human at all, but none would go and _ask_ The Mystery for the great risk of death, so The Mystery remained just that. A mystery.

Many nights around the fire, when The Mystery did not lurk, they discussed and argued in hushed whispers the mystery's origins and nature. The Mystery appeared in the night, one would say, blood dripping from under its hood and threatened death upon their beloved leaders should they not allow The Mystery to stay. That's all wrong, another would hiss back, because it came in the day, in the middle of a battle, and slew all opponents in the blink of an eye, ready to advance on the Shepherds had their wonderful Tactician not intervened and recruited it before it could. It was not the Tactician but the Exalt that recruited it, another would insist, for it owes him a life debt as he spared it from death at the edge of his legendary blade.

Their quiet stories would grow more elaborate as the night aged and they retire more wary of The Mystery than before.

The mystery knows they fear it, knows they whisper in the nights and behind its back. The mystery accepts its fate as the one more flee from than the two Dark Mages.

It thinks fondly of them. Those odd two the only ones willing to regularly engage the mystery. They talk at it, for it never responds. They do not mind. It does not flinch, nor fight, nor flee. It simply exists. It exists and they acknowledge it. It acknowledges them too, in its silent way.

The mystery sits in the meetings the Prince holds with his Tactician and Knight and other trusted advisors sometimes. It likes to watch them converse so easily with each other, plan and joke and be serious so seamlessly together. They always startle when the mystery comes from its quiet corner and looks upon the plans it could not see from its place. They never ask the mystery its thoughts, they never expect it to answer. It would though, the mystery thinks to itself. It would answer should they honestly want its opinion. They would never want its opinion, though, so it finds solace in its ability to surprise them every time it comes out of the shadows.

The Prince was a good man, in the mystery's opinion. He did his best to do right by those he loved and he loved many. The mystery did not consider itself one of those loved, but it thought it might just be a comrade. A brother in arms. More than an acquaintance, yet not quite a friend. That was enough for the mystery.

The mystery once fought the Tactician. When it first joined the ranks. The Tactician had dragged the mystery out to the then-nearby forest, found a clearing and ordered it to thrash them as well as it could. It had been a fun fight, with sticks and flips and the occasional spell. The Tactician had wanted to assess the mystery's abilities they said, to better know where to put it in battle. The mystery knew in truth it was just an attempt to resolve a bet between the Tactician and the Princess about the mystery's nature, but the mystery let it pass. The Tactician had many problems and worries and the mystery would not deny them that small relief from the pressure.

The mystery rather liked the Princess. It was wounded once, a painful stab in the calve that made the mystery limp and grimace and bite its tongue to keep its silence, and she healed it. It was in the middle of a skirmish with several bandits and the mystery did not want to get in the way. It had limped to the fringe of the battle and she suddenly appeared, chattering her concern and scolding it for not going straight to her. She healed the mystery, gave it one last stern look, and then was off to assist one of the Shepherds. Yes, the mystery liked the Princess.

The mystery liked them all. The Prince, the Tactician, the Princess, the Knight, the two Dark Mages, the Thief, the clumsy Rider; all of them. Yes, they did not know the mystery all that well, many feared it, but it liked them. They let it stay. It wanted to stay. They let it sleep in their camp and eat their food and fight alongside them.

The mystery did not want to die.

But as the blood gushed from the gaping wound in its chest and the searing pain in its limbs began to turn numb and cold, the mystery accepted that it would.

The mystery coughed and spat the blood out. The mystery cried and hoped it would not be alone.

The edges were turning black as those that the mystery liked so much came into its sight, their eyes wide and faces pale.

The mystery smiled. They could see its face, no longer a Mystery.

The Princess knelt by the mystery and desperately attempted to heal the wound, but the mystery's hand rested on her own, a small shake of its head made her stop.

" _My name is Rowan."_

They buried Rowan like a Shepherd.

~x~

 **Something that has been in my thoughts since I first played the game… *shrugs***


End file.
